Battle of the Ages
by Wilusa
Summary: A dark AU 'turn of the millennium' story featuring Duncan, Richie, and Joe.


  
DISCLAIMER: _Highlander_ and its canon characters are the property of Davis/Panzer Productions; no copyright infringement is intended.  
  
******************************************************************************  
.  
.  
.  
_This is how it will be. When the final conflict comes, if it ever does, you won't be alive to see it. But it will look very much like this. Duncan MacLeod, the Highlander, strong and proud and eternally thirty years old, dueling to the death with a Champion of Evil.  
  
This is a preview, the closest you'll get to seeing the real thing. So watch, drink it in, burn the memory into your mind. Never forget Duncan MacLeod as he is this day..._  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
Everyone, it appeared, felt much the same. Leaning on his broadsword, Richie Ryan became aware the whole bizarre battle had ground to a halt. All the combatants were watching MacLeod's epic struggle with the self-styled Prince of Darkness.  
  
The Forces of Darkness presumably believed their leader would prevail. They might even believe he would be the last survivor, in that unimaginably distant future.  
  
But the others, the exuberant tartan-sashed crew who had voted unanimously to call themselves Clan MacLeod...all of them, Richie suspected, sensed what he did. Mac--his friend, mentor, idol--was the supreme hero, the best and bravest their kind would ever produce.  
  
As for the outcome of Mac's single combat with the Prince, Richie entertained not a moment's doubt.  
  
His confidence was well-founded. After twenty minutes of all-out fighting, the Prince was beaten to his knees. A last clash tore his sword from his hands, sent it flying yards away.  
  
He looked up, grimly accepting the Rules, asking no quarter.  
  
MacLeod raised his own mighty weapon to the storm-ravaged sky. Head thrown back, black hair streaming in the wind, he bellowed, "There can be only one!"  
  
The blade fell.  
  
The pyrotechnics that followed lasted nearly as long as the duel. Veterans though they were, the Immortals in the field cowered in awe. Some of the Forces of Darkness slunk away.  
  
But when nature returned to a semblance of normal, most of them--MacLeod and Richie included--hefted their weapons and resumed hacking at their opponents.  
  
Richie beheaded several more black-clad warriors, barely noticing the power that flowed into him after each kill. Hours into the battle, he was numb. He fought like a zombie, sometimes wondering if a strength beyond his own was guiding his arm...  
  
_Don't think like that! Connor and his crazy ideas. Damn Connor. There were five hundred Immortals in this battle, at the beginning. Fewer than a third of those known to the Watchers. No one else is involved in any way._  
  
The battle was unique, Richie knew, without precedent in Immortal history. The Battle of Battles, they were calling it, and the Battle of the Ages. Fueled by the insanity of the Millennium. It would live in memory as other millennia rolled by, immortalized in the Watcher Chronicles... There were probably a dozen Watchers in the trees somewhere. With camcorders.  
  
But it _wasn't_ the "Gathering"! Connor MacLeod had been obsessed with the Gathering for years. Had even deluded himself, once, into believing it had quietly taken place, and his defeat of old enemy Kurgan had left him the last surviving Immortal. He'd convinced himself that as a result, he had been given the power to read minds--and had in other respects become a normal human, subject to aging and death. Notions he'd soon learned were wrong. How could anyone take the man seriously after that?  
  
Connor had been proclaiming this the time of the Gathering for weeks, infecting the gullible with his fears. Incredibly, it seemed he'd even made a believer of Mac.  
  
Richie and their Watcher friend Joe Dawson had argued till they were blue in the face. Pointing out, first, that nowhere near all the Immortals were assembling. Connor had insisted the others would be drawn in psychically, participate from afar.  
  
But even Connor had no answer for their second argument. An argument that struck at the very concept of the Gathering. What were the odds that the last two Immortals would be enemies? Might they not just as easily be Mac and Connor, or Mac and Richie--friends who would never raise their swords against one another?  
  
Perhaps, eons hence, a last Champion of Good--may it be Duncan MacLeod!--would indeed stand alone against a last Champion of Evil.  
  
But not today. The Forces of Darkness had been routed. Thankfully, the hero would not have to stand alone today.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
***  
.  
.  
.  
_We have to get out of here_, Richie told himself. The battle was over. The last time he'd seen Mac, the Highlander had assured him there were upwards of seventy known survivors. All on their side.  
  
But however far they'd come from the city, it couldn't be far enough. It was doubtless fear alone that had kept anyone from arriving, up to now, to seek the source of the otherworldly light show. With the display ended, night falling, the media and local authorities--perhaps even the military--would be on their way. No Immortal could risk being found near this corpse-strewn battlefield.  
  
The victors had spent too much time retrieving the telltale MacLeod-tartan sashes of their dead. By now Richie was exhausted. All his muscles ached; his legs threatened to buckle with every step.  
  
Before dark, fog had closed in. He'd lost his sense of direction. Joe, the car... Had Mac and Connor gone back to the car, or were they looking for him, as he was for them? Were they all walking in circles?  
  
Now and again he glimpsed other Immortals through the swirling mist. Two or three together, listing and tottering like so many drunks.  
  
_We have to get out of here!  
  
_"Richie." The voice out of the fog was so low that for a moment, he thought he'd imagined it. "I was starting to worry that you'd run into...problems."  
  
He heaved a sigh of relief. Mac. Where...?  
  
He finally spotted them. Mac and--yes, that was Connor--taking their ease under a tree. Connor's head was lolling forward on his chest; he didn't look up.  
  
"You should have known I can take care of myself," Richie replied. "Why are you whispering?"  
  
"Connor's nodded off, and I don't want to wake him. We're both beat."  
  
"Yeah, me too. I think everyone is." Suddenly uneasy, he strained to make out Mac's features in the deepening gloom. The Highlander looked about as bad as he himself felt.  
  
"Do me a favor?" Mac asked. "Have Joe bring the car here for us. He should be waiting near the bridge. Over that way." He pointed.  
  
Richie's first reaction was relief that Mac knew the direction.  
  
Still... "You want him to bring the car off the road?" His uneasiness grew. "C'mon, Mac, I'm just as worn out as you guys."  
  
Mac chuckled. "Yes, but you're younger than we are."  
  
Richie grinned in spite of himself. "And you'll still be able to say that when I'm a thousand years old, won't you?"  
  
He took a step, hesitated. Something was nagging at him.  
  
Then he realized what it was.  
  
"Mac. Can you sense me?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"_Sense_ me. It just hit me that I'm standing right in front of two Immortals, and I can't sense either of you! Can you sense me?"  
  
"Oh, that. No. I can't sense you either.  
  
"It's affecting all of us, Richie. The battle was so intense--so much loss of Immortal life, so many Quickenings--we suffered a kind of overload. It's as though we're all temporarily shell-shocked.  
  
"That's why I don't want to leave Connor. I'd hate to wake him. And there may be a few enemy survivors. With the radar not working, I can't risk leaving him alone, asleep."  
  
"No. No, of course not." Fighting off his own malaise, Richie turned in the direction Mac had indicated.  
  
"Richie!" A note of urgency. "Tell Joe...tell him it's turning out the way I expected."  
  
"Huh?" All his qualms returned. "Why are you sending a message to Joe? With luck, you'll see him inside of a half hour."  
  
"Just tell him," Mac said wearily. "Don't ask questions. Tell him exactly what I said. And get a move on!"  
  
Richie grunted, took a deep breath, and trudged into the night.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
***  
.  
.  
.  
Half asleep on his feet, he came to his senses when he staggered into a tree. _Great. Straighten up, man. Just a little farther, a little farther._  
  
Never, as presumed mortal or as Immortal, had he felt so totally wiped out.  
  
He shivered. Something about this whole business was..._wrong_. Their inability to sense one another. That cryptic message for Joe.  
  
It wasn't the first time today that he'd felt he was out of the loop. He and hundreds of others, but that hadn't made it any easier to accept.  
  
With dozens of Immortals bunked in Joe's bar, they'd agreed to tune each other out. Mentally deactivate their radar. And that had enabled Richie, pausing in a stairwell that morning, to overhear snatches of conversation not meant for his ears...  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
Mac's voice. Harsh, insistent. "I need the answer to that question I asked last night, Joe. You've had time to check with all the Watchers."  
  
"Yes," Joe had said heavily. "The answer is...one."  
  
A long pause.  
  
"One. That's what I...hoped." But Mac didn't sound pleased or relieved.  
  
"It doesn't mean anything, Mac."  
  
"It supports my theory."  
  
"Theory be damned! It's just the way things happen to be right now..."  
  
They'd moved away from the wall. But Richie, disturbed, had lingered till he heard them again five minutes later.  
  
The second fragment was more disturbing.  
  
Mac again, voice ragged with fatigue. "Joe, promise you'll stay where I leave you, away from the fighting. I have enough on my mind without worrying about you. When the battle's over, you have to be here. I can't face this unless I know I can count on you."  
  
"You have my word, Mac." The normally feisty Watcher sounded more subdued than Richie had ever heard him. "Whatever happens, I won't let you down."  
  
No sound for perhaps a minute. Were they shaking hands? Embracing?  
  
Then Joe's voice, torn by some emotion beyond Richie's ken. "Mac. Believing as you do, you still intend to lead this army into battle? _Without telling them?_"  
  
Another unnerving silence.  
  
"Yes. God forgive me, yes. If I told them, I might not have an army to lead. And this battle must be fought."  
  
Richie had been tempted to rush in. Beg Mac to share the burden of knowing--whatever it was. Assure him that whatever the secret, his loyalty would never waver.  
  
But some instinct had held him back, warned that MacLeod couldn't handle one iota of extra pressure...  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
It was all Connor's foolishness, nothing more. Connor had convinced Mac this was the Gathering. And clearly, it wasn't. So everything would be all right.  
  
_"Tell him it's turning out the way I expected."_  
  
It didn't mean a thing. Mac was just dead tired, and sickened by the amount of blood they'd been forced to shed. Tomorrow they'd be relaxing, learning to laugh again, the Battle of the Ages receding into memory.  
  
If he could just find Joe...  
  
There! A familiar bulk loomed in the mist. Joe's car.   
  
Near collapse, he stumbled toward it. Realizing the Watcher might still be in doubt about the outcome of the battle, he called hoarsely, "It's all right, Joe! It's me, Richie. Everything's okay."  
  
Headlights switched on, and the engine roared to life.  
  
A moment later Joe was peering up at him from the car window. "You look terrible, Richie."  
  
"You should see the other guys--"  
  
"Cut the crap. Where's Mac?"  
  
"He's okay. Or will be. He and Connor were too exhausted to walk back here. Mac wants you to bring the car to them.  
  
"And...I'm not sure what this means. But he said to tell you it's 'turning out the way he expected.' "  
  
Joe's response was a string of oaths. He reached to open the passenger side door, then changed his mind and slid over. "You drive. You know where you left them--we'll get there faster if you drive. Get in, damn it! _Hurry!_"  
  
Shocked back to full alertness, Richie obeyed without question. He was glad he'd driven this rig often enough that Joe's disabled-access controls didn't slow him down.  
  
As the car bounced and lurched through a rutty meadow, he stole a glance at Joe. The Watcher's face was chalk-white. Jaw set, eyes haunted.  
  
The eyes met his. "I'm sorry, Richie. There's no time to explain.  
  
"But you should know Mac was trying to spare you. He didn't want you to...see anything bad. Alone."  
  
Richie's blood ran cold. His hands spasmed on the wheel, and the car bucked violently.  
  
_Didn't want me to "see anything bad"?  
  
I killed a dozen men and women today.  
  
I chopped their heads off.  
  
Are any of us sane?_  
  
For a moment he longed to be that seventeen-year-old punk who, only a few years ago, had never heard of Immortals...  
  
He slammed on the brake. "There they are. Right where I left them, under that tree. Can't get any closer."  
  
He hopped out of the car.  
  
And knew at once, even from this distance, that something was hideously wrong. Something about Connor...  
  
He was about to break into a run when Joe, struggling with his cane and prosthetic limbs, barked, "Wait for me! That's an order."  
  
Not Joe's order, he knew. Mac's.  
  
Nerves taut as a bowstring, he waited.  
  
He expected Joe to have difficulty on the rough terrain. But once out of the car, the Watcher moved faster than he would have thought possible.  
  
As they approached the tree, the moon broke through the clouds.  
  
Nothing could have prepared Richie for the sight that met his eyes.  
  
The thing propped against the tree, dressed in Connor MacLeod's clothes, was a crumbling skeleton.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
He clapped his hands to his mouth, somehow stifling the scream that rose to his lips. Felt Joe grip his shoulder--and knew his friend was offering support, not seeking it.  
  
_Ignore the skeleton for now. Mac. Mac!_ He dropped to his knees, touched the crumpled form at the base of the tree.  
  
It moved.  
  
"Joe--he's alive."  
  
A gnarled hand clawed feebly at his sleeve. "Richie?...Joe?" Speech slurred but understandable.  
  
"We're here, Mac," Joe said as he lowered himself to the ground. "Both of us."  
  
"Yes, we're right here." Richie eased the broken body half into his lap, captured the groping hand in his own. Still fighting to deny the evidence of his senses.  
  
The withered limbs, emaciated frame. The leathery, incredibly ancient face. Glazed eyes, undoubtedly sightless. Hair white and yellowing, falling out in clumps.  
  
Joe took Mac's other hand, and he clung to both of them with surprising strength. "I think...Connor...is dead," he said calmly. "I've been...fighting to...hang on."  
  
"You're right, Mac, Connor's gone." Joe kept his voice equally steady. They might have been discussing the weather. "Do you want us to get you to the car?"  
  
"No! Don't...don't move me. Just...stay with me...please?" His voice finally cracked.  
  
"We'll be right here, Mac. We're not going anywhere." Richie felt tears streaming down his cheeks. _Don't you go! I can't bear it..._  
  
Aloud, he asked, "Are you in pain?"  
  
"No. Not now. Before...when you were here. Pain was...bad then. Not in pain now. Just...slowly dying.  
  
"Richie! Sorry I...wasn't honest with you..."  
  
"That's all right," Richie mumbled. Then he blurted out, "But for God's sake, what happened?" _I can't avenge you if I don't know what happened..._  
  
"Joe," Mac whispered. "Tell him."  
  
"All right." Joe's eyes, too, glistened with tears. "To begin with, Richie, the battle was absolutely necessary. Don't ever doubt that. The Prince and many of his followers were close to mastering occult powers that would have enabled them to rule the world, and destroy rival Immortals by means other than the sword. It was now or never.  
  
"This battle _was_ the Gathering. Connor was right about that, and about the absent Immortals' being drawn in psychically.  
  
"But no one had ever interpreted the Gathering prophecy correctly. Not till Mac figured it out within the last few days.  
  
"It didn't mean the Immortals would fight until only one person was left standing. That always was an unrealistic idea, as you and I said.  
  
"In reality--Mac predicted this before the battle--Immortal constitutions couldn't support a conflict on that scale. The enormous outlay of physical and psychic energy. The hundreds of Quickenings coming in rapid-fire succession. By the time the battle ended, you had all been drained of...whatever it was that had made you Immortals."  
  
Richie couldn't make sense of the words. "Whatever _had_ made us Immortals?" Mac squeezed his hand.  
  
He saw infinite compassion in Joe's eyes. "Yes, Richie. You too. You're a normal man now, have been for hours.  
  
"You'll age, get sick and die, just like the rest of us. But on the plus side, you'll probably be able to father children. You won't have to feel like an outsider. And you won't always be looking over your shoulder, wondering who's coming for your head."  
  
_It's true. There are no more Immortals. That was the real reason we couldn't sense each other._  
  
He felt a cold emptiness in his gut. Knew he would never really be a "normal man."  
  
"But...Mac, Connor..."  
  
"Unfortunately, the older Immortals' true age caught up with them quickly. Mac anticipated that, too."  
  
_Four hundred years. Mac is over four hundred years old!_ He tightened his grip on the frail form in his arms. What superhuman effort of will was keeping the man alive even this long?  
  
"Connor was...ready to go," Mac rasped. "I think he...welcomed it.  
  
"I...hate to leave...best friends I've ever had..."  
  
Joe choked back a sob.  
  
"And Richie, beyond that...I know you thought of me...as an older brother. But to me, you were...the son I always wanted."  
  
"Mac." Richie could barely get the words out. "Do I have your permission to take the name MacLeod?"  
  
The dying man tried to smile. "I'd be honored."  
  
He fell silent, and they sat quietly. Holding his hands, listening to his labored breathing.  
  
Richie had another question. But now was not the time.  
  
Mac gave a sudden, panicky gasp.  
  
Richie's heart stopped. "What is it?"  
  
"Can't...feel you..."  
  
He released the limp hand, lovingly stroked his friend's cheek. "Can you feel me touching you now?"  
  
"Yes. Better. Thank you....Joe! You will...help him...adjust?"  
  
"I'll always be here for him, Mac. You have my word." Joe would need plenty of help himself, Richie knew.  
  
"Richie...don't grieve for me. Had a long life.  
  
"And...it was all predestined. So much was foretold..."  
  
The blind eyes seemed to gaze directly up into Richie's face. The voice rang out, strong and clear. "In the end, there can be only one!"  
  
Then the light in the Highlander's eyes dimmed. A last shuddering sigh, and all was still.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
Richie had no idea how many minutes passed before Joe touched him gently on the shoulder.  
  
"Richie. This won't be easy. But...can you help me get their...remains into the car?"  
  
"I'll do it." He heaved himself to his feet, grateful for a task to perform.  
  
"I promised we'd bury them," Joe explained. "Where they wanted, if at all possible."  
  
"I can guess their choices. Connor is to be returned to the Highlands. And Mac, buried beside Tessa."  
  
"That's right."  
  
Richie squared his shoulders. One more point to be clarified.  
  
Though he thought he knew.  
  
"Joe, tell me something. Mac asked you an important question last night. Something you had to check with the other Watchers. You eventually told him the answer was 'one.' What was the question?"  
  
The pain in Joe's eyes mirrored his own. "The question was, how many living Immortals are under the age of one hundred?"  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
_This is how it was. Duncan MacLeod, the Highlander, strong and proud and eternally thirty years old, dueling to the death with a Champion of Evil.  
  
Burn the memory into your mind. Never forget Duncan MacLeod as he was this day._  
.   
.  
.  
.  
.  
(The End)


End file.
